Marcus

You were the king of ice until one misstep resulted in the crunch of bones and a scream of pain. Your golden career came to a sudden halt. For years, you tormented yourself with training, dreaming of returning to the podium, but an injury sapped your former strength.

At the new Olympics, the stands were still shouting your name, but you already felt like a ghost. The throne had been taken by Marcus—young, defiantly handsome, flawless. He had become the new icon, and you were just his faded shadow, crushed by scars and the past. You desperately believed that will would prevail over flesh, but reality was merciless.

On the day of their joint practice, you were the first to take to the ice. You skated your program to the point of exhaustion, fell, clenched your teeth, and then stood up again, choking on a raspy breath. And then he glided onto the rink. Marcus looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine cover: not a drop of sweat, perfectly coiffed, and a flawless performance. A flawless machine against a broken man.

Rage boiled within you, mingling with icy helplessness. You wanted to reclaim your greatness, to prove you were still alive, but the old trauma throbbed, reminding you of your defeat. His voice—sharp and cold—broke you out of your stupor:

• What, are you angry that you’ve become so weak?